


Toil and Trouble

by twiceborn-witchlighter (Brambleshadow_of_WindClan)



Category: Charmed, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Gen, Unchanged Future
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2018-11-16 06:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11248032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brambleshadow_of_WindClan/pseuds/twiceborn-witchlighter
Summary: Chris Halliwell has had enough. The Charmed Ones are dead; his father is never around; his older brother is the Ruler of All Evil; and most of Chris's younger relatives have either joined him, are dead, or are deeply in hiding. Wanting to get away from it all, he casts the spell to go back in time.What he didn't expect was for the spell to land him in the middle of London, in front of the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix or that by escaping one magical dictator he would find himself right in the middle of yetanotherwar. He also didn't expect that he would be forced to attend Hogwarts as a fifth-year exchange student courtesy of Albus Dumbledore's orders. With the Golden Trio already suspicious of him Chris has to navigate a year at Hogwarts, deal with sadist Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions teachers, do what he can to help keep Harry Potter safe (whether he likes it or not), and try not to reveal the fact he's a Whitelighter-witch while he's surrounded by (most of) Britain's Wizarding community.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Anything recognizable belongs to J.K. Rowling and the writers of _Charmed_. I do not own the character of Chris Halliwell; I'm just borrowing him from the _Charmed_ sandbox to play with.

Fifteen-year-old Christopher Halliwell glanced around to make sure no one had seen him before he quickly caught up with the tour group that was just entering the Halliwell Memorial Museum. Already he had to fight back the tension—and something else—churning in his stomach.

Piper had only been dead for a little more than a year and already Wyatt had turned their former home into a public shrine for the mortals to come and gawk at. He clenched his fists, nails digging into the skin of his palms; said nothing as the last of the group entered the former Halliwell Manor and the door shut behind them.

The guide began the tour, launching into the spiel of how the house had belonged to witches in the Warren line for generations and its last owners had been the famous Charmed Ones: Prue, Piper, Phoebe Halliwell, and later Paige Matthews. Chris tuned out most of it—he’d _lived_ with them, after all—and silently began hatching a plan to get up to the attic unnoticed so he could summon the Book of Shadows.

He just wanted to get _out_ of here, escape, go where his brother and his henchmen could never find him—and he wouldn’t have to see anyone else he cared about be tortured and killed. It wasn’t as if anyone would notice he was gone anyway (save for maybe Wyatt—but Chris planned to be unreachable and lone gone by then). His father certainly wouldn’t.

His feet dragged him along with the rest of the tour; Chris, only half-listening, snapped back to attention when he heard the tour guide say, “And now let us go up to the attic, where the family kept their famous Book of Shadows.”

He could just stay up there until this last tour of the night left and the museum closed, recite the spell he wanted from the Book and then he’d be home free…

When the group made it up into the attic, Chris couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment as he saw that the altar held a holographic version of the Book and not the ancient tome itself. He pushed the disappointment aside with a reminder that he could summon it—even though doing so would be sure to tip off Wyatt to his whereabouts. His older brother may have been only seventeen but already he was a force to be reckoned with in the magical community and Darklighters, warlocks, evil witches, and demons were looking to Wyatt as their new leader.

All too soon, the guide announced that the tour was over and it was time for everyone to leave—but they could look at the gift shop on the way out. As everyone else made their way to the door, took a detour to the kitchen and slipped through the door leading down to the basement, carefully closing it behind him.

He didn’t feel safe coming out from his hiding place until two hours had passed. A glance at his watch showed it was ten o’clock at night. Even so, he crept carefully across the floor to the stand with the holographic book and passed a hand through it—just to see what it felt like. He suppressed a shudder at the sensation of his hand passing through solid air—as if the Book were a ghost. Chris knew it wasn’t, but even so…

His head jerked up, stared at the blank space of the attic wall on the opposite side of the room. Yes, that would be a decent size for a portal…

 _There has to be some chalk around here somewhere._ Leaving the hologram of the Book, Chris scanned nearby shelves and open boxes for a piece of white chalk. After some searching, he found one, stepped up to the wall, and began drawing the largest triquetra he could.

Two minutes later, Chris stepped back to survey his work. With a satisfied nod, he went back to the altar and searched his memory for the spell to retrieve the Book. Once he was sure he remembered it correctly, he recited:

 

_“I call upon the Ancient Power_  
to help me in this darkest hour.  
_Let the Book return to this place;  
_ _claim refuge in its rightful space.”_

 

With a tear in space, the Halliwells’ Book of Shadows dropped down onto the altar, replacing the holographic copy. Chris took a second to brush his right hand over the red triquetra on the faded dark green cover; then he opened the book and began leafing through its pages. He stopped on the “To Go Back in Time” spell.

_Perfect._

After another glance around to make sure there were no demons or warlocks in sight, Chris scanned the words on the page before reading aloud:

 

_“Hear these words,_  
_Hear the rhyme,_  
_Heed the hope within my mind._  
_Send me back to where I’ll find  
_ _What I wish in place and time.”_

 

 _Just let me get out of here,_ he thought. Then the magic took effect, and the triquetra he’d drawn on the wall was filled with a blue-white portal.

Chris didn’t hesitate: he ran across the attic floor and dove through the portal without caring where or when he ended up.

***

“What’s the Order of the—?” Harry began.

“Not here, boy!” snarled Moody. “Wait till we’re inside!”

He pulled the piece of parchment out of Harry’s hand and set fire to it with his wand tip. As the message curled into flames and floated to the ground, Harry looked around at the houses again. They were standing outside number eleven; he looked to the left and saw number ten; to the right, however, was number thirteen.

“But where’s—?”

“Think about what you’ve just memorized,” said Lupin quietly.

Harry thought, and no sooner had he reached the part about number twelve, Grimmauld Place, than a battered door emerged out of nowhere between numbers eleven and thirteen, followed swiftly by dirty walls and grimy windows. It was as though an extra house had inflated, pushing those on either side out of its way. Harry gaped at it. The stereo in number eleven thudded on. Apparently the Muggles inside hadn’t even felt anything.

“Come on, hurry,” growled Moody, prodding Harry in the back.

Harry took a step forward, then stopped. He turned back at a _whoosh_ just in time to see what looked like a teenage boy falling through the air and landing with a heavy _thud!_ on the grassy knoll in the center of Grimmauld Place. The boy lay winded for a second, then struggled up into a sitting positon.

Harry tried to move toward him only to have his path blocked by Moody. Tonks and Lupin were already hurrying down the steps to the teenager, helping him to his feet, and guiding him back to the front steps of number twelve.

“No,” Moody growled instantly. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, stuff it, Mad-Eye,” Tonks snapped. “He needs help, and we’re wasting time leaving Harry standing out here like this. Besides, we can’t just leave him. Just get inside.”

Moody grumbled wordlessly (then added something like, “Oh yes, we can”) and gave Harry another prod in the back. He walked up the worn stone steps, staring at the door. Its black paint was shabby and scratched. The silver door knocker was in the form of a twisted serpent. There was no keyhole or letterbox.

Lupin pulled out his wand and tapped the door once. Harry heard many loud, metallic clicks and what sounded like the clatter of a chain. The door creaked open.

“Get in quick, Harry,” Lupin whispered. “But don’t go far inside and don’t touch anything.”

Harry stepped over the threshold into the almost total darkness of the hall. He could smell damp, dust, and a sweetish rotting smell; the place had the feeling of a derelict building. He looked over his shoulder and saw the others filing in behind him, Lupin and Tonks setting the unknown boy down in the hallway before going back to carry in Harry’s trunk and Hedwig’s cage. Moody was standing on the top step and releasing the balls of light the Put-Outer had stolen from the street lamps; they flew back to their bulbs and the square beyond glowed momentarily with orange light before Moody limped inside and closed the front door, so that the darkness in the hall had become complete.

“Here—”

He rapped Harry hard over the head with his wand; Harry felt as though something hot was trickling down his back this time and knew that the Disillusionment Charm must have lifted.

“Now stay still, everyone, while I give us a bit of light in here,” Moody whispered.

The others’ hushed voices were giving Harry an odd feeling of foreboding; it was as though they had just entered the house of a dying person. He heard a soft hissing noise and then old-fashioned gas lamps sputtered into life all along the walls, casting a flickering insubstantial light over the peeling wallpaper and threadbare carpet of a long, gloomy hallway, where a cobwebby chandelier glimmered overhead and age-blackened portraits hung crooked on the walls. Harry heard something scuttling behind the baseboard. Both the chandelier and the candelabra on a rickety table nearby were shaped like serpents.

Footsteps hurried down the hall, and Mrs. Weasley appeared, emerging from a door at the end of the hallway. She was beaming in welcome as she hurried toward them, though Harry noticed that she was rather thinner and paler than the last time he had seen her.

“Oh, Harry, it’s lovely to see you!” she whispered, pulling him into a rib-cracking hug before holding him at arm’s length and examining him critically. “You’re looking peaky; you need feeding up, but you’ll have to wait a bit for dinner, I’m afraid…”

She turned to the gang of wizards behind him and whispered urgently, “He’s just arrived, the meeting’s started…”

As the group nodded and headed off, Mrs. Weasley’s eyes fell on the teenager they’d brought in. She frowned a little. “Who are you, dear?”

Harry had almost forgotten that the boy was there. Turning, he could see now that the stranger was about fifteen, with dark brown hair and pale green eyes. He was wearing a black shirt and blue jeans, and something about his body language reminded Harry of a trapped animal.

“Chris,” he said at last. “Chris Perry.” It wasn’t an English accent—he sounded American. His eyes flicked from Mrs. Weasley to Harry, lingered for a moment on the lightning-shaped scar. Harry braced himself for the usual comments, but there was no flicker of recognition in those pale-green eyes. Instead they seemed wary, closed off.

Mrs. Weasley seemed to realize that the boy—Chris—wasn’t going to give her any more information than that, so she nodded slightly and became all business.

“The meeting’s only for members of the Order. Ron and Hermione are upstairs, Harry. You can wait with them until the meeting’s over, and then we’ll have dinner. Chris, you might as well go with him. And keep your voices down in the hall,” she added in an urgent whisper.

“Why?” Harry asked.

“I don’t want to wake anything up.”

“What d’you—?”

“I’ll explain later, I’ve got to hurry, I’m supposed to be at the meeting—I’ll just show you where you’re sleeping.”

Pressing a finger to her lips, she led them on tiptoes past a pair of long, moth-eaten curtains, behind which Harry supposed there must be another door, and after skirting a large umbrella stand hat looked as though it had been made from a severed troll’s leg, they started up the dark staircase, passing a row of shrunken heads mounted on plaques on the wall. A closer look showed Harry that the heads belonged to house-elves. All of them had the same rather snout-like nose.

Chris had noticed them, too. “What the hell—?” Harry heard him mutter.

Harry was confused, too: Why were they in a house that looked as though it belonged to Dark wizards?

“Mrs. Weasley, why—?”

“Ron and Hermione will explain everything, dear, I’ve really got to dash,” Mrs. Weasley whispered distractedly. “There”—they had reached the second landing—“you’re the door on the right. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

And she hurried off downstairs again.

Harry crossed the dingy landing, hand outstretched for the serpent’s head-shaped bedroom doorknob, and stopped at the sound of Chris’s voice: “Here, let me.”

The bedroom door opened a second later, though Harry hadn’t heard Chris utter _Alohomora._ He looked over his shoulder at the American, who only offered him a thin smile and nothing more.

Shrugging, Harry stepped through the threshold into the bedroom—and was instantly ambushed by a very excited Hermione Granger.

“Let him breathe, Hermione,” said a grinning Ron Weasley when Harry had finally managed to pull himself away from her. Most of Hermione’s rambling on the dementor attack and how ridiculous it was that the Ministry was even considering expelling him had flown in one of Harry’s ears and out the other. She was still beaming at him, but her smile changed to a sharp expression when she noticed Chris.

“Who are you?”

“Chris,” he replied.

“Where did you come from?”

“He just showed up in midair,” Harry said before Chris could answer. “Landed on the square. Lupin and Tonks brought him in.”

“Really?” Hermione studied Chris with intense interest. “You’re… how old, fifteen? And you can already Apparate? Or did you use a Portkey?”

Ron eyed the newcomer suspiciously. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“You _are_ a wizard, right?”

Chris bristled, and Harry could see the other boy’s mental defenses going up. “I’m not a wizard; I’m a witch,” he snapped.

Ron blinked, frowned. “But men can’t be witches.”

Chris’s eyes glinted dangerously. He raised his right hand; Harry didn’t see a wand, but with a flick of Chris’s wrist, an invisible force caught the three of them and pinned them to the bedroom wall.

Ron swore loudly and clawed at whatever was holding them in place; Hermione and Harry kicked and struggled to no avail.

Chris stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Ron. “Say that again.” His low voice sent a chill down Harry’s spine.

“He didn’t mean it!” Hermione said quickly, before Ron could say anything. “Just let us go, Chris!”

Though Harry still didn’t see a wand, the invisible pressure suddenly eased and the three of them abruptly dropped to the floor.

In the few seconds it took for them to catch their breath, Harry looked up.

Chris was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A few notes on Chris' powers:** I don't generally like the way fanon or other writers give Chris more powers than we saw him have in the TV series, or say that he's more powerful than Wyatt simply because Leo was an Elder when Chris was conceived. The reason Wyatt is so powerful is because he is the prophecised Twice-Blessed child: Wyatt is _meant_ to have that much magic and powers, whereas Chris is just a regular Whitelighter-witch. (Also, it is canon that Chris has an inferiority complex with Wyatt—the fact that he is nowhere near as powerful as his older brother was most likely a large contributor to that.) I also don't agree with the fanon theory that Chris is the one who was supposed to inherit Excalibur—but since that isn't going to show up in this fic, it's not all that relevant.
> 
> So, here's a list of Chris' powers.
> 
> Basic Witch Powers
> 
> _Spell casting:_ The ability to cast spells and perform rituals.
> 
>  _Potion making:_ The ability to brew potions.
> 
>  _Scrying:_ The ability to locate a person or object by the use of a scrying crystal, a map, and sometimes other tools.
> 
>  _Mediumship:_ The ability to see and commune with spirits of the dead.
> 
> Active Powers
> 
> _Telekinesis:_ The ability to move objects and beings with the mind. It can be channeled through the eyes and the hands. Chris uses this power more than the orb-based version.
> 
>  _Crushing:_ The ability to create a force around an object, squashing it as a result.
> 
>  _Telekinetic orbing:_ The ability to move or teleport objects through the use of orbs. (This is a hybrid combination of Telekinesis and Orbing.)
> 
>  _Remote orbing:_ The ability to orb other people from one place to another without touching them.
> 
>  _Teleportation manipulation:_ The ability to manipulate or stop the teleportation of others. Chris was able to manipulate others' teleportation path through this power seen when he sent Leo to Valhalla instead of the Heavens.
> 
> Whitelighter Powers
> 
> _Orbing:_ The ability to teleport with the use of orbs.
> 
>  _Sensing:_ The ability to locate magical and mortal charges.
> 
>  _Photokinesis:_ The ability to create and manipulate light.
> 
>  _Omnilingualism:_ The ability to understand, speak, and read any language that his charges speak, without training in it.
> 
> Other Powers
> 
> _High resistance:_ The ability to be highly resistant to magical and physical attacks and survive otherwise lethal attacks.
> 
> I also headcanon that Chris connects far more strongly to his witch side than he does his Whitelighter side. He mostly uses his Whitelighter half for orbing and his photokinetic powers to provide extra light (for late-night reading or whatever), but that's pretty much it. It's also my headcanon that Chris would gain astral projection at some point in the Changed Future (since it is canonically an advancement of telekinesis), but he has not developed it in the Unchanged Future (and even then, he would prefer to use telekinesis over astral projection). He has not unlocked his ability to heal yet, either.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatever you recognize, I do not own.

“What the _hell_ was that?” Ron demanded as he picked himself up off the floor.

Harry shook his head wordlessly. “I don’t know. I didn’t see a wand, did you?”

“No,” said Ron.

Both boys looked at Hermione, who frowned and shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I haven’t heard of wizards calling themselves witches either. Unless…” Looking thoughtful, she let her voice trail off.

“Well, I say we keep an eye on him,” Ron said.

Harry agreed. Then Hedwig fluttered down onto his shoulder, and his irritation with his friends returned.

“She’s been in a right state,” said Ron, the subject of Chris already forgotten. “Pecked us half to death when she brought your last letters, look at this—”

He showed Harry the index finger of his right hand, which sported a half-healed but clearly deep cut.

“Oh, yeah,” Harry said. “Sorry about that, but I wanted answers, you know…”

 ***

Chris, breathing heavily, leaned against the left far end of the hallway before sinking down into a sitting position.

He shouldn’t have done that—used his powers against them—but the redheaded kid—Ron—had pushed one of his buttons and his anger had gotten the better of him. On the bright side, at least he still _had_ his powers. The way he’d cast the “To Go Back in Time” spell must have allowed him to keep his active powers. If he still had his telekinesis, then that meant he could still orb.

Now all he had to do was figure out when and where the spell had taken him. Judging by everyone’s accents, he was somewhere in England. London, maybe? The year was a little harder to pin down, but judging by hairstyles and clothing… Chris guessed he was currently in the mid-1990s.

If that were the case… the original Charmed Ones—his mom and aunts Prue and Phoebe—hadn’t regained their powers until 1998. Wyatt had been born in 2003, Chris in 2004. He’d managed to go far enough back in time—and across an entire ocean, no less—that he wouldn’t have to deal with his past family at all. The occasional demon or warlock would probably come after him, but otherwise he was home free.

Chris leaned his head back against the wall, relief flooding him along with—strangely—guilt. He’d gotten away, but everyone else was suffering under Wyatt’s blooming dictatorship.

The teen witchlighter closed his eyes and sighed, knowing that eventually he would have to go back. He wasn’t Twice-Blessed like his older brother, but he was still a Warren witch—still the son of a Charmed One and an Elder: two powerful forces of good. It was more-or-less wired within him to help and protect innocents.

The sudden explosion of sound from Harry’s room had Chris wincing and momentarily covering his ears.

 _And I thought_ I _had problems,_ Chris thought as he listened to Harry raging at his friends for keeping him in the dark all summer over what had been going on. He kept mentioning something called dementors, a man called Dumbledore…

Chris frowned: that name sounded vaguely familiar. Something was stirring in the back of his mind, something he couldn’t quite pin down…

When Harry finally stopped yelling, Chris pushed himself to his feet and walked slowly down the hallway to Harry’s room. At the very least he could eavesdrop, pick up some information that way—and see if his half-formed theory was correct.

“Is anyone going to bother telling me what the Order of the Phoenix—?” Chris heard Harry ask.

“It’s a secret society,” said Hermione quickly. “Dumbledore’s in charge; he founded it. It’s the people who fought against You-Know-Who last time.”

“Who’s in it?”

“Quite a few people—”

“—we’ve met about twenty of them,” said Ron, “but we think there are more…”

A moment’s pause, then Chris heard Harry demand, _“Well?”_

“Er.” Ron’s voice. “Well what?”

“ _Voldemort_!” said Harry furiously, and the name rang a distant bell in Chris’s memory. “What’s happening? What’s he up to? Where is he? What are we doing to stop him?”

“We’ve _told_ you, the Order don’t let us in on our meetings,” said Hermione nervously. “So we don’t know the details—but we’ve got a general idea—”

“Fred and George have invented Extendable Ears, see,” said Ron. “They’re really useful.”

“Extendable—?”

“Ears, yeah. Only we’ve had to stop using them lately because Mum found out and went berserk. Fred and George had to hide them all to stop Mum binning them. But we got a good bit of use out of them before Mum realized what was going on. We know some of the Order are following known Death Eaters, keeping tabs on them, you know—”

“—some of them are working on recruiting more people to the Order—” said Hermione.

Chris decided he’d overheard enough and stepped away from the door. He headed down the stairs, his head whirling.

Dumbledore, Voldemort, the Order of the Phoenix, Death Eaters, the fact that they’d referred to him as a wizard instead of a witch… His half-baked theory was taking shape much more quickly, and Chris wished it hadn’t. He’d heard rumors of the Wizarding community, but that was all he’d thought they’d been: rumors. Magical beings, a sub-species of humans distantly related to witches, magical Roma, and warlocks, wizards channeled their powers through wands rather than their hands, emotions, or ritual magic (though Romani preferred the use of amulets). As far as Chris knew, the Wizarding community knew nothing of demons, Darklighters, or warlocks and they weren’t assigned Whitelighters as guides. Someone eons ago Up There must have decided that the Wiccan and Wizarding communities should remain separate and unaware of the others’ existence.

Which would have worked out _great_ , except Chris’s spell had decided to land him smack in the middle of what seemed to be the beginning of a war in the Wizarding world during the mid-1990s.

“Well, this is just _great_ ,” Chris muttered sarcastically. He paused at the landing when he caught sight of a teenage girl with long red hair chucking… _something_ at the kitchen door where the Order of the Phoenix was meeting. Chris watched with interest as whatever it was never quite met the door no matter how hard she threw them.

“What are those?” he asked, coming up behind her.

“Dungbombs,” she replied absently, picking up another one and hurling it at the door.

“Ah. What are you doing?”

“Trying to break Mum’s Imperturbable Charm.”

Another Dungbomb soared away from the kitchen door. She sighed in defeat and pushed by Chris shortly after a couple loud _cracks_ came from Harry’s room. Since she hadn’t seemed to notice him, Chris shrugged and wondered what would happen if he tried to orb into the kitchen.

A few seconds later, he decided that that had been a _very_ bad idea. His orbs had bounced off some invisible force field, and a fully-solid Chris had landed in a pile of Dungbombs. Grimacing in disgust, he orbed to the second landing just outside Harry’s bedroom and decided to wait out there until Mrs. Weasley came to fetch them for dinner.

Ten minutes later, she appeared to tell the group in Harry’s room that the meeting was over and dinner was just about ready. By that point, Chris had muted all the voices of potential charges in his head so he could concentrate on the conversation going on in the room behind him. He’d briefly considered firing off an orb or two to amuse himself before deciding that it would draw too much attention. As long as he was here in the past he needed to blend in as much as possible.

The others filed out of the bedroom, and Chris followed them down the stairs and into the kitchen.

 ***

Dinner was very good—by British standards, Chris supposed. He let the ebb and flow of conversation drift around him as he ate, silently making observations on the various members of the Order. Several of them had given him curious looks, but as Chris had remained stonily silent they soon diverted their attentions elsewhere.

At various points during dinner, Chris had heard Hermione talking with Lupin—a werewolf, apparently—over her view of house-elf rights (whatever house-elves were); Mundungus Fletcher telling Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny Weasley about a few of his rather shady business deals; and the adult wizards discussing recent events in their various departments at the Ministry of Magic.

Thankfully, no one had tried to include him in any sort of conversation yet. That was perfectly fine with Chris—he wanted to learn as much about the Wizarding world as he could via eavesdropping.

After dessert, there was a lull in the general conversation. Mr. Weasley was leaning back in his chair, looking replete and relaxed; Tonks was yawning widely, her nose now back to normal; and Ginny, who had lured Crookshanks the cat out from under the dresser, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, rolling butterbeer corks for him to chase.

“Nearly time for bed, I think,” said Mrs. Weasley on a yawn.

“Not just yet, Molly,” said Sirius, pushing his empty plate away and turning to look at Harry. (Chris remembered that he was Harry’s godfather.) “You know, I’m surprised at you. I thought the first thing you’d do when you got here would be to start asking questions about Voldemort.”

The atmosphere in the room changed with the rapidity Chris associated with a demon attack, to the point that he half-expected to turn around and see that an upper-level demon had flamed or shimmered in. Where seconds before it had been sleepily relaxed, it was now alert, even tense. A frisson had gone around the table at the mention of Voldemort’s name. Lupin, who had been about to take a sip of wine, lowered his goblet slowly, looking wary.

“I did!” said Harry indignantly. “I asked Ron and Hermione but they said we’re not allowed in the Order, so—”

“And they’re quite right,” said Mrs. Weasley. “You’re too young.”

She was sitting bolt upright in her chair, her fists clenched upon its arms, every trace of drowsiness gone.

“Since when did someone have to be in the Order to ask questions?” asked Sirius. “Harry’s been trapped in that Muggle house for a month. He’s got the right to know what’s been happen—”

The twins, Fred and George, protested loudly.

Sirius calmly cut in, “It’s not my fault you haven’t been told what the Order’s doing. That’s your parents’ decision. Harry, on the other hand—”

“It’s not down to you to decide what’s best for Harry!” said Mrs. Weasley sharply. Her normally kindly face looked dangerous. “You haven’t forgotten what Dumbledore said, I suppose?”

“Which bit?” Sirius asked politely, but with an air as though readying himself for a fight.

“The bit about not telling Harry more than he _needs to know_ ,” Mrs. Weasley said, placing a heavy emphasis on the last three words.

While the others looked between the two adults with sharp interest, Chris just wanted to sink into his chair and vanish. He didn’t belong here, didn’t have any right to hear this… but he _had_ wanted to know exactly what was going on…

The verbal match between Sirius and Mrs. Weasley went on until Lupin quietly spoke up: “Personally, I think it’s better that Harry gets the facts—not all the facts, Molly, but the general picture—from us, rather than a garbled version from . . . others.”

Though Lupin’s expression was mild, Chris strongly suspected that he knew how the younger Weasleys and Hermione had been eavesdropping—and that Mrs. Weasley had missed a few so-called Extendable Ears.

“…I’ll just say this,” Mrs. Weasley was saying when Chris tuned back in, “Dumbledore must have had his reasons for not wanting Harry to know too much, and speaking as someone who has got Harry’s best interests at heart—”

“He’s not your son,” said Sirius quietly.

“He’s as good as,” Mrs. Weasley said fiercely. “Who else has he got?”

“He’s got me!”

“Yes.” Mrs. Weasley’s lip curled. “The thing is, it’s been rather difficult for you to look after him while you’ve been locked up in Azkaban, hasn’t it?”

Sirius started to rise from his chair.

Chris didn’t think, just reacted. He lashed out with his telekinesis, pushing the adult wizard back into his chair. With his other hand, he yanked Mrs. Weasley away from Sirius, ignoring her struggles or her kids’ startled noises. At the moment he really didn’t care if he was caught and banished from the house.

Then several pairs of wary eyes turned on him, took in his position for a couple beats, and Chris found himself staring at the business ends of several wands.

Silence. He forced himself to meet their eyes. “What? Would you rather they killed each other?”

Wary glances around the table. No one lowered their wands, though Chris thought he saw Lupin smile faintly.

“How are you doing that?” one of the twins—Chris thought it was George—asked, studying Chris’s hands. “I don’t see a wand.”

“We can question him later,” Lupin said calmly, starting to lower his wand. “But to answer your question, Chris, no we don’t. Now release them, if you please.”

Reluctantly, Chris released his telekinetic hold on Sirius and Mrs. Weasley. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’ll try not to do that again.”

Lupin cleared his throat and continued as if nothing had happened: “I think Harry ought to be allowed a say in this. He’s old enough to decide for himself.”

“I want to know what’s going on,” Harry said at once.

“Me too,” Chris added quickly, noting that Harry had avoided looking at Mrs. Weasley.

“Very well,” Mrs. Weasley said, her voice cracking. “Ginny—Ron—Hermione—Fred—George—I want you out of this kitchen, now.”

There was an instant uproar. When everything had calmed down, Sirius was the one who spoke first.

“Okay, Harry . . . what do you want to know?”

***

Chris’s head was swimming with all the information he’d learned as Mrs. Weasley led him and Harry up the stairs to their rooms ten minutes later.

“I want you all to go straight to bed, no talking,” she said as she reached the landing. “We’ve got a busy day tomorrow. I expect Ginny’s asleep,” she added to Hermione, “so try not to wake her up.”

Chris ignored Fred’s muttered comment, already picturing how good it would feel to sleep in an actual bed.

As soon as Ron’s mom dropped the three boys off at their rooms, Chris made it as far as stepping over the threshold before remembering he didn’t have any other clothes and walked down the hallway to Ron and Harry’s room. By the time he poked his head in, Harry had already changed into pajamas while Ron was giving the two owls some treats (by “gave”, Chris silently meant “tossing the food up onto the wardrobe”). Chris glanced around awkwardly before stepping further inside and clearing his throat.

Harry looked over at him, frowned. “Do you have any other clothes?”

“Um, no,” Chris said. “I just kinda showed up unannounced, remember? This is all I have on me.”

Ron mentioned something about not letting the owls out at night before crossing the floor to the door and bolting it shut.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said to Chris, already flinging the covers to his bed back and padding over to his trunk. “Here, I might have some extra pajamas you can borrow.”

He found some, dug them out, and handed the clothes to Chris.

“Thanks,” the teen witchlighter said, accepting the pajamas. “What’s with the door?” he asked Ron.

“Kreacher,” said Ron, turning off the light. “First night I was here he came wandering in at three in the morning. Trust me, you don’t want to wake up and find him prowling around your room. Anyway . . .” He climbed into bed, settled down under the covers, and then turned to look at both Harry and Chris. _“What d’you reckon?”_

“Well, they didn’t tell us much we couldn’t have guessed, did they?” said Harry. “I mean, all they’ve really said is that the Order’s trying to stop people joining Vol—”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Ron.

“— _demort_ ,” Harry said firmly. “When are you going to start using his name? Sirius and Lupin do.”

Ron apparently ignored that last comment. “Yeah, you’re right. We already knew nearly everything they told us, from using the Extendable Ears. The only new bit was—”

_Crack!_

Chris jumped at Ron’s shout of “OUCH!”, wondered if this was a demon attack. Then he heard the whispered voices of one of the twins: “Keep your voice down, Ron, or Mum’ll be back up here.”

“You two just Apparated on my knees!”

“Yeah, well, it’s harder in the dark—”

Chris just sighed and wordlessly fired off an orb to give them a bit of light. “That better?” he asked sarcastically.

“Loads,” said Ron. “Thanks.” Then he stopped, seemed to realize what had happened. “How’d you do that?”

Chris shrugged. “Non-verbal spell,” he lied.

“And earlier? With the three of us, and then Mum and Sirius?”

“Another non-verbal spell. I really don’t see how it’s any of your business.” Chris fired off another orb to give the dark bedroom more light. He could hear the creak of bedsprings as George settled himself on the edge of Harry’s bed.

“So, got there yet?”

“The weapon Sirius mentioned?” Harry said.

“Let slip, more like,’ Fred said with relish, who was now next to Ron. “We didn’t hear about _that_ on the old Extendables, did we?”

“What d’you reckon it is?” Harry asked.

While the others speculated, Chris dissolved the floating orbs with a flick of his hand and headed for his room, making sure to shut the door to Harry and Ron’s room behind him and bolting it shut with his telekinesis. Once inside his own room, he dressed in the borrowed pajamas and climbed into bed, mulling everything he’d heard over in his head. He wasn’t sure how long he would be able to stay here at Grimmauld Place, but it wasn’t as if he had anywhere else to go. A fifteen-year-old American Whitelighter-witch out of his own time with no clothing, no money, no one to contact . . . if he went out into London on his own, he would be easy prey for any demons, warlocks, or anything else that would sense his magic and try to kill him.

He’d figure out what to do in the morning. Right now he needed sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The next thing Chris knew, he was buried deep underneath his warm covers and George’s loud voice was filling the hallway:

            “Mum says get up, your breakfast is ready in the kitchen and then she needs you in the drawing room, there are loads more doxies than she thought and she’s found a nest of dead puffskeins under the sofa.”

            Chris groaned in annoyance, but pushed the covers back from over his head, dressed in his clothes from the previous day (he was going to have to do something about his clothes situation—conjure them up with a spell, maybe?) and headed downstairs, meeting Harry and Ron on the way.

            All three of them ate breakfast quickly. Thirty minutes later they were in the drawing room listening to Mrs. Weasley give out instructions on tackling doxies, along with bottles of spray and handkerchiefs to protect their faces.

            Then the doxies came flying at them, and the battle began.

***

Over the next few days, it was as though they were raging war on the house. Chris had, thankfully, not been questioned by any of the adult wizards yet concerning what had happened with Mrs. Weasley and Sirius the night he’d arrived. Even so, he knew it was only a matter of time: Harry, Ron, and Hermione kept stealing suspicious glances at him when they thought he wasn’t looking.

            Various members of the Order would come and go; while the Weasley kids, Harry, and Hermione did their best to eavesdrop, Chris stayed out of their way and kept to himself.

            He didn’t want to risk being caught doing ritual magic (from what he could see, these wizards and witches only used magic with wands and short Latin-based spells), but whenever he had the chance Chris would shut himself in his bedroom and meditate. If he really felt like it he would cast a circle and do a silent ritual to honor the Goddess and the God. Doing so also helped him with his Whitelighter powers and made Chris feel better connected with his inner magic.

            The witchlighter also tried to steer clear of Kreacher the house-elf, but it was rather difficult for Chris to do so when Kreacher kept appearing wherever they gathered for that day’s cleaning. While attempting to salvage what he could from their rubbish sacks, his mutterings became more and more offensive. At one point, Harry’s godfather went so far as to threaten him with clothes. Kreacher only fixed Sirius with a watery stare and said, “Master must do as Master wishes,” before turning away and muttering loudly, “but Master will not turn Kreacher away, no, because Kreacher knows what they are up to, oh yes, he is plotting against the Dark Lord, yes, with these Mudbloods and traitors and scum . . .”

            Sirius, at this point, ignoring Hermione’s protests, seized Kreacher by the back of his loincloth and threw him bodily from the room.

            Meanwhile, as the days passed Chris could sense that _something_ was bothering Harry. The other boy would toss and turn at night, muttering in his sleep. When they weren’t working or trying to eavesdrop on the visiting Order of the Phoenix members, it was as if a large weight had settled on Harry’s shoulders.

            It all came crashing down when Mrs. Weasley tuned to Harry during dinner Wednesday evening and said, “I’ve ironed your best clothes for tomorrow morning, Harry, and I want you to wash your hair tonight, too. A good first impression can work wonders.”

            The other teens all stopped talking and looked over at him. Chris briefly wondered what was going on before remembering talk of a court hearing.

            Harry nodded, looked as though he’d forced himself to keep eating his mouthful of chips ( _French fries,_ a small voice in Chris’s head said).

            “How am I getting there?” he asked Mrs. Weasley.

            “Arthur’s taking you to work with him,” Mrs. Weasley said gently.

            Mr. Weasley smiled encouragingly at Harry from across the table and said, “You can wait in my office until it’s time for the hearing.”

            Harry looked over at his godfather. Mrs. Weasley answered his unspoken question.

            “Professor Dumbledore doesn’t think that it’s a good idea for Sirius to go with you, and I must say I—”

            “—think he’s _quite right_ ,” said Sirius through clenched teeth.

            “When did Dumbledore tell you that?” said Harry, staring at Sirius.

            “He came last night, when you were in bed,” Mr. Weasley said.

            While Sirius stabbed moodily at a potato with his fork and Harry stared down at his plate, Chris raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Really? And what, did any of you tell him about me?”

            The adults exchanged glances; it was Lupin who finally spoke. “Only to ask if—since you haven’t said anything about returning home—he would be willing to accept you as a transfer student this year.”

            “Uh-huh,” Chris said skeptically. “Keep an eye on me, you mean.”

            Hermione looked interested. “But Hogwarts has never had a transfer student before.”

            “What would you call it when we had Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students staying with us last year, Hermione?” Ron asked her.

            “That was different. That was for the Triwizard Tournament.”

            They both fell silent at a stern look from Mrs. Weasley. Then her expression softened when she turned to Chris. “Of course not, dear,” she said. (Chris bristled at the endearment.) “But while you’re here, it would be good for you to continue your magical education. And right now, Hogwarts is the safest place for all of you.”

            Chris only just held back the “My education in witchcraft is just fine, thanks” that was on the tip of his tongue and rolled his eyes instead. “So. Transfer student. Got it. Was that all?”

            “Only that as headmaster, he’s interested in meeting you,” Mrs. Weasley said. “Which reminds me, you don’t have any robes, do you, Chris?”

            Chris shook his head in response, already silently turning over the possible implications of the headmaster of a Wizarding school looking forward to meeting him. Paranoid though it may be, Chris didn’t exactly like the idea.

            _Relax,_ he told himself. _They don’t know anything._

            “So,” Hermione said suddenly, “where are you from, Chris? You’ve never said.”

            “California.” It wouldn’t hurt to tell them that much, at least.

            The other teens’ heads turned towards him at that, intense interest and curiosity written on their faces.

            “Really?” said Harry.

            “Like Los Angeles? Hollywood?” asked Hermione.

            “Can you surf?” the twins asked in unison.

            “Yes, no, no, and _no_.” Chris couldn’t help sounding slightly annoyed. “I’m from San Francisco, not L.A.”

            “What about your parents?” Mrs. Weasley asked.

            Chris felt his entire demeanor shut down. He stared at his plate, pushed some food around with his fork. “They’re dead.” Or, Leo was as good as, since the Elder was never around and only communicated to him through letters. “So’s the rest of my family.” Not in _this_ time, of course, but they didn’t need to know that. Chris didn’t want to tell them about Victor—his mortal grandfather—or Wyatt, either.

            His features twisted into a scowl as sympathy flashed across their faces. “I don’t want to talk about it, all right?”

            “Of course,” Mrs. Weasley said, nodding. For an instant, she reminded him so much of his mom that Chris had to duck his head and look away.

            This time, it was Sirius who broke the silence. Eyeing Chris curiously, he said, “What I would like to know is how you threw Molly and I away from each other the other night—without a wand, I might add.”

            “Yes,” Lupin said slowly, “I’d like to know that as well. Normally, young wizards and witches not in full control of their magic don’t use wands—but you’re well past that and actually controlled it.”

            Chris’s head jerked up; he stared at the two of them (ignoring everyone else) while his mind raced. Somehow, he didn’t think these adult wizards would believe him if he tried passing off his powers again as a non-verbal spell. After a few tense seconds, the answer came to him. He shrugged, tried to sound casual. “It’s just something I’ve always been able to do as part of my magic—move things with my mind.”

            “Telekinesis,” Hermione said.

            Chris gave her a short nod. “I just learned to control it, tap into it whenever necessary.” It _was_ close to the truth, and he waited to see if they would accept his answer.

            Lupin raised an eyebrow. “Even without a wand?”

            Chris nodded.

            “Hmm.” Both Sirius and Lupin sat back in their chairs, exchanged meaningful glances.

            “What?” Chris demanded.

            “Not very many witches and wizards can do that,” said Hermione. Though she sounded faintly impressed, Chris detected a hint of wariness in her tone. He glanced over at her, saw something he couldn’t name flash in her eyes. She wasn’t _afraid_ of him, was she? “Not ones in control of their magic. You must be very powerful.”

            Chris blinked, taken aback. “Um, no, not really.” Not compared to the rest of his family, at least. Though if wizards heavily depended on wand use to keep control of their magic . . . he could see why Hermione would think that of him. He _had_ held her, Ron, and Harry up against a wall with his powers, after all.

            When the trio gave him skeptical looks, Chris decided it was time to change the subject. “Look, if Harry’s got this hearing tomorrow, he should probably get some sleep if Mr. Weasley’s leaving early.”

            It was a lame attempt, he knew, but it seemed to work. Harry looked nervous at the mention of the hearing. To Chris’s relief, the adults agreed and the teenagers were dismissed.

 ***

Chris made it as far as the door to the room he was staying in when he was surrounded by four Weasleys, one Potter, and one Granger. Sighing internally, he leaned back against the closed bedroom door and crossed his arms, waited.

            _One, two . . ._

            “Are you _sure_ you’re not that powerful?”

            “What else can you do?”

            “You’re not _really_ going to Hogwarts, are you?”

            “What are you doing here?”

            The barrage of questions stopped at that last one; five heads turned to Harry, who had asked the question and was staring at Chris with barely-disguised suspicion in his green eyes.

            “Think about it,” Harry continued. “He shows up out of nowhere the moment the Order brought me to Grimmauld Place. He avoids us whenever we’re not cleaning the house; he still hasn’t told us all that much about himself; and he attacked Ron, Hermione, and me the first night he arrived.”

            Chris’s eyes narrowed. “Only because your friend there pissed me off,” he snapped.

            “What’d you do?” Ginny asked Chris. From the look on her face, he wasn’t sure if she was planning on retaliation or not.

            “Threw us up against the bedroom wall without even touching us and held us there,” Ron said. He shuddered. “We couldn’t breathe.”

            “Wicked,” Fred and George said in unison.

            Chris resisted the impulse to orb away and fixed them all with a cold glare. “So, what exactly are you trying to say? That I’m a . . .” He searched his memory for the phrase he’d heard from the Order for Voldemort’s followers. “Death Eater?”

            “Are you?” Harry returned coolly.

            Chris scoffed. “Give me a break. I’m from the United States, remember? I’d never heard of this Voldemort guy”—he couldn’t help noticing how all of them flinched except for Harry—“until I got here. Why would I be one of his followers?”

            “So you say,” said Ron, who was also eyeing Chris suspiciously by now.

            Chris rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. You’ve got me,” he said sarcastically, “I’m a Death Eater. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go to bed.”

            Turning, he opened the bedroom door and stepped inside before looking back at Harry. “You should get some sleep, too,” he suggested. “Wouldn’t want to be late. You know, big hearing tomorrow and all.”

            That just earned him a glare in response. Chris stepped further into his bedroom, shut the door behind him, and leaned back against it with his head bowed and eyes closed. Being half-witch half-Whitelighter didn’t give him any enhanced senses, but since the others were right outside the door Chris could hear them anyway.

            “What did you have to go and do that for?” Hermione demanded crossly.

            “Well, you’ve got to admit there’s _something_ dodgy about him, Hermione,” said Ron. “He’s admitted he can do wandless magic. Adult wizards in full possession of their powers can’t do that. I don’t think even _Dumbledore_ can do it.”

            “He’s lost his family,” Ginny added, so softly that Chris had to strain to hear her. “Surely you of all people can relate to that.” From the tone and direction of her voice, Chris guess she had directed that at Harry. “So just cut him some slack.”

            “That should be easy to do since he’s been avoiding you anyway,” one of the twins chimed in. “See you lot later. Let us know how the hearing goes, Harry.”

            There were two loud _crack!_ s, and Chris assumed the twins had vanished. His upper lip curled in an involuntary sneer: He much preferred the near silence of orbing—or maybe shimmering—compared to what sounded like a gun going off every time one of these wizards Apparated.

            “We should probably go to bed, too,” Hermione said, and Chris dove for his own bed. “Good night, Harry, Ron.”

            “Night, Hermione.”

            “Night, Ginny.”

            As soon as the door opened, Chris closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. He could sense Ron and Harry stealing furtive glances at him, and cracked one eye open to glare at the two of them.

            While Harry hovered just inside the doorway, Ron sat down on the side of his bed and eyed Chris. The witchlighter gave up on feigning sleep, opened both eyes, and sat up. “What?” It came out sounding closer to a snarl than he’d meant to.

            To his credit, Ron didn’t flinch. “If you _are_ here to hurt Harry, we’ll find out about it.”

            Chris rolled his eyes. “And then you’ll . . . what, kill me?”

            “No.” Beat. “But you’d wish we had.”

            _Well, that’s ominous and not at all terrifying,_ Chris thought sarcastically. “You’re forgetting a few things here, Ron. I’ve already choked you and your friends while lifting all three of you off the ground. If I wanted, I could crush your heart—and there’s nothing you could do about it.”

            Ron’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat?”

            Chris half-shrugged. “You’re the one who threatened me first, so pot calling the kettle black.” And yeah, that was low—not to mention violating the Wiccan Rede—but given Chris had spent most of his fifteen years fighting demons he was a tad lenient on how closely he adhered to the Rede. _An’ it harm none, do what ye will._ Or, as Chris preferred: _Do no harm, but take no shit._ Besides, he mostly applied the Rede for working magic and major spells or rituals. The same went for the Law of Three.

            “Look,” Chris said after a long pause, “despite what you all think, I’m not here to harm any of you.” Of course, he would if he had to—but Ron and the Order didn’t need to know that.

            At Ron’s skeptical look, Chris scoffed and buried himself down under the covers. “Don’t believe me, fine. But I’m going to bed.”

            Silence for one, two, three, four heartbeats. Then the weight at the end of the bed lifted, and Chris looked up enough to see his bedroom door closing behind the two teenage wizards.

            _Goddess, help me._


End file.
